


Jeeves and the Rescue OR Bertie and the Dashed Unpleasant Circs

by Saylee



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-20
Updated: 2013-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-05 21:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/728173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saylee/pseuds/Saylee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Jeeves didn't come back after the events of Thank You, Jeeves, and Bertie gets himself arrested for gross indecency. Cue rescue mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jeeves and the Rescue OR Bertie and the Dashed Unpleasant Circs

It had been a week since Reginald Jeeves had appeared unexpectedly on his sister’s doorstep and asked if she needed help with the shop.

'Oh, Reggie.' With her hands on her hips, and her eyebrow raised, Mary looked just like their mother had. 'You haven’t left another post? Well, come in.'

'I am contemplating a career change,' he announced once they were seated in the small kitchen.

'But Reg, you love being a valet.'

He said nothing and looked away. Mary frowned at her brother’s form, perfectly correct, even sitting at her kitchen table, but for the dark circles under his eyes.

'What I don’t understand,' she said, 'is why you ever left that young gentleman you seemed so fond of. You seemed happy there. Surely the – what was it? A banjolele? – surely it couldn’t have been as bad as all that.'

'No.' He didn’t elaborate.

'Fine,' she sighed, plopping a thick ledger down in front of him. 'Keep mum if it suits you. If you’re staying, you can do my books. See if you can’t save me some money.'

*****

Now, a week later, Mary looked up from the newspaper to accept the cup of tea Reginald passed her, inhaling the fragrant steam.

'I will say this for having you around: you make an excellent cup of tea, Reggie. And I don’t think my kitchen has ever been so clean.'

'Thank you.' He didn’t seem inclined to say more, instead gazing at his tea cup with a distracted air. She bit her lip. Reg was the most stubborn man this side of the Atlantic; pressing him would reveal nothing, she knew. Well, she decided, if her younger brother wanted to mope. She returned to her newspaper, sipping her tea.

Her eyes caught on a certain salacious headline, and she huffed, ready to turn past it. She had no patience for the sly innuendo that always accompanied these reported arrests, and though she would never admit it, she could no longer read about them without imagining Reggie being led away in cuffs.

A familiar-looking name stopped her. It couldn’t be, and yet -

'Reggie? That nice young gentleman you used to work for, what was his name?'

'Are you thinking of Mr Wooster?'

A wave of dread washed over her. 'Not Bertram Wooster, was it?'

There must have been something in her voice, because his head shot up, tea cup still poised at his lips. 'Why?' He demanded, voice strained. 'Has something happened to him?'

'Oh Reggie. He’s been arrested. For gross indecency.'

His tea cup hit the saucer with a clatter. 'What? No. It isn’t – I thought he’d be safe so long as I left.' He swallowed heavily. 'Oh, Lord.' He dropped his head into his hands. Mary reached out to tentatively touch his shoulder. Her brother was normally the very picture of poise, even in the most frightful situations. If he was this rattled now, then – oh, dear.

'Reg?'

He raised his head to look at her, his face pale and stricken. 'You have to understand. He was so easy to – to manipulate. I thought – When I saw that he wanted me – I thought he was simply responding to what I wanted, that I’d influenced him without even knowing it. I didn’t trust myself not to take advantage of that. If I had thought for an instant that he truly was like me –' He broke off. 'I believe I always did underestimate him.'

'Oh, Reg.' Her face twisted in sympathy. 'You were in love with him, weren’t you?'

'I still am.' His voice was bleak.

'Oh, darling.'

He chuckled weakly, a pained sound. 'Do I sound as bad as that?'

'Worse.' She rubbed her forehead wearily. 'Well, drink your tea, Reg, and we’ll think of something. I don’t suppose you’ve planned a jail break before?'

*****

It had all started in Cannes.

Well, no. That wasn’t true. It had all started, as most things in Bertie’s life did, with Jeeves. He had been in awed lust with the man almost from the moment that paragon had shimmered into his life, and it wasn’t long before he could feel the stirrings of something warmer fluttering about in the old cardiac region.

There was no question in his mind of anything happening. A marvel like Jeeves could do miles better than a chump like Bertram. He had spent the next few years alternating between trying to be content to bask in the man’s presence, and pushing back against the dangerous feelings with bouts of sartorial obstinacy and mad attempts to betroth himself to the sort of exciting girl who might keep him too distracted to dwell on what he really wanted.

The last of these had been Pauline Stoker. While outwardly his debonair self, Bertie had been feeling out of sorts, tired and vulnerable, the night he proposed to her – sickening for something, as it turned out – and altogether in the sort of mood where he felt he couldn’t go on much longer in this unrequited whatsit without going completely loony or giving himself away. Pauline was a bright, pretty, charming, nice girl, a pippin really. He could certainly do worse – had been engaged to worse, in fact – so he proposed, and she accepted, and things seemed, if not completely oojah-cum-spiff, at least hopeful.

Then Bertie had woken up the next morning sick as a dyspeptic canine.

Jeeves had taken care of him, of course, bringing him tea and chicken soup, whiskey with honey and clean handkerchiefs. He piled blankets on before Bertie even noticed he had begun to shiver, and brought him ice when he started burning up. He read to him, not even making a token pretence, when Bertie asked him to bring one of his Rosie M. Banks novels, that the books belonged to his aunt. The book was utter sop, but, Bertie reflected, sometimes a fellow simply wasn’t up for anything but sop.

The thing was, he couldn’t imagine Pauline taking care of him this well, or any other beazel, for that matter. This would be enough, he thought, to have his man take care of him, to have his brain and his dry humour, and his sympathy, even if he didn’t have his heart. He thought Jeeves might even be a little fond of him. When Pauline’s letter came, breaking the engagement after only two days, he could only feel relief. He wouldn’t have to leave the Jeevesian orbit, and that was all that mattered.

*****

When Jeeves left him, two months later, over a banjolele, he was devastated. There was a brief moment of hope, when, after several harrowing days of fires, knife-wielding maniacs, and enraged American fathers, it seemed that Jeeves might be willing to return, but his erstwhile man had merely seen him safely back to London with his wardrobe replaced before biffing off again to some new employment.

Bertie spent the next several months moping about the flat, or alternately moping about the Drones club for a change of pace. His new valet, Hoskins, while better than the abominable Brinkley, wasn’t a patch on Jeeves, and even if he had been, the very thought that he wasn’t Jeeves was enough to send Bertie back into the doldrums. And so things went, until Cannes.

'Hullo, you young blot,' his Aunt Dahlia had boomed over the phone. 'What’s this I hear about you mooching around London like a sick mongrel?'

'Maybe I’m just getting older, Aunt D. A fellow can’t keep up his wild youth in perpetuity, you know.'

'Nonsense. Where did you learn the word perpetuity, anyway? What you need is some bucking up, and there’s nothing like sunshine and casinos for that. Come to Cannes. You’ll enjoy it.'

*****

He went to Cannes. He attempted to enjoy himself – it wasn’t altogether awful. On another occasion he might have quite liked the place. Aunt Dahlia was the one among his coterie of aunts of whom he could say he was truly fond, and his cousin Angela was a topping companion. Still, he found himself distracted. The purchase of a rather spiffing white mess jacket with brass buttons bucked him up a trifle, until he found himself reflecting fondly on the soupy look Jeeves would have given the thing. That brought the pall of melancholy back upon him. Even the frightfully soppy Madeline Bassett, whom Angela had befriended, soon gave up on him.  
'Do you sometimes feel,' she had asked one evening as they stood on the balcony of the casino, 'that the stars are God’s daisy-chain?'

'Hm?' Bertie, who had been smoking and only half-listening, turned from his contemplation of the water. 'No, I can’t say I do,' he added absently. He took one last drag on his cigarette, and flicked the glowing end off into the darkness. 'I’m going back to the hotel. Headache, what?'

*****

'Madeline tells me you’re a great brute,' Angela informed him the next day as they walked arm-in-arm along the promenade. 'Whatever did you say to her?'

'I haven’t the foggiest. I can’t say I was listening closely.'

'No …' She trailed off and they walked in silence for some minutes, before she spoke up again, turning on him with a concerned look. 'Bertie, are you quite alright?'

'What? Oh.' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'Of course, young Angela. Spiffing.'

'Well, you’re not yourself at all.'

He cringed. 'Oh, but dash it, Angela, I’m fine!'

'Well, there’s no need to make a scene about it. Now come on, I want to try aquaplaning this afternoon.' She dragged him off, and no more was said.

*****

There was a limit to how much mooning a chap ought to do, Bertie told himself sternly as he got well under the surface one evening. Here he was making a fool of himself pining away over Jeeves, like a whatsit that pines and dies, and with nothing to show for it. Not even one bally little kiss. In fact, he hadn’t had so much as that since well before he left Oxford, except from the beazels he had tried to tie himself to, and that was beginning to seem dashed foolish. The truth was, he missed being touched. And why deny himself, hmm? He directed a belligerent stare at his glass. So he couldn’t have the man he loved – well, he couldn’t have had him whether Jeeves had stayed or left. He knew what he was, there was no use denying that, not anymore. He would do it. There was a dark-haired cove across the room who had been eyeing him all evening. If Bertie squinted and tilted his head, the fellow even looked like Jeeves. He would do just fine.

Later, Bertie would realise he must have been tighter than he had thought, because afterwards he could remember little of the encounter, besides a sensation of heat and hardness and desperation, and the sensation of his mind going blissfully blank as he came off, gasping into the sheets. He must have staggered back to his own hotel at some point, because he woke still half in his evening costume, sprawled on top of his covers, his mouth as dry as a stale desert.  
He didn’t seek out the first cove again, but he did seek out others. It was – well, not quite lovely, because it was a rummy feeling, too, but something like it – to have strong hands and hot skin pressed against him, to be wanted, to forget, if only for a little while. He still played the dutiful nephew and cousin for Aunt Dahlia and Angela during the day, but by nights he had found a better way of drowning his sorrows.

Of course, in Cannes one could get away with certain things that were frowned upon in Old Blighty, and the trip to Cannes couldn’t last forever. Still, if one were discreet, one could find a chap who was up for a bout in the sheets. What Bertie hadn’t counted on was that in Cannes he had had his hotel room to himself, whereas in London there was the distinct risk of Hoskins (that subpar non-Jeevesian valet) walking in on a pair of fellows in flag.

'Pardon me, sir,' said Hoskins, as Bertie’s companion grabbed his clothing and legged it.

'Not at all, Hoskins.' Bertie chuckled nervously, rocking on his heels, his face feeling as if it were on fire. 'Terribly sorry you had to see that. I think I’ll just retire early, what?'

'Very good, sir.' Hoskins seemed unperturbed.

'Thanks, old chap. Take the tenner off the dresser.' The man nodded and did so, with a quiet, 'Thank you, sir,' apparently prepared to be the soul of discretion.

Several hours later, when Bertie was dragged from the dreamless to find a pair of constables standing over him, he knew he shouldn’t have been nearly so surprised.

'What?' he gabbled as he was manhandled out of bed, 'What? I say, what? What? I say, chaps, what’s going on?'

'Shut your filthy mouth,' growled the one not currently holding Bertie by the collar of his cerise pyjamas (the replacements for the heliotrope pair that had been sacrificed to Pauline Stoker). Obediently, Bertie shut it.

'Cuff him,' ordered the growler, and Bertie reeled as a meaty fist caught him in the ear.  
'With the handcuffs, nitwit. Never mind, I’ll do it.' He wrenched Bertie’s arms behind his back hard enough to make him wince and snapped the cold metal around his wrists. 'Get walking, you dirty sod.' He gave Bertie a shove between the shoulder blades, and Bertie stumbled towards the door.

Hoskins stood in the hall, watching the action with a face like granite. Bertie turned beseeching eyes upon him.

'Hoskins, old man –'

'Pardon me, sir,' Hoskins looked down his nose, 'But I am turning in my resignation. You may consider this my notice.'

The growler actually tipped his helmet at the man. 'Thank you for your call, Mr Hoskins. It’s nice to know some men know their civic duty.'

'Just doing my part to keep these degenerates off the street, officer.' Bertie wondered if that wheeze about 'how sharper than the serpent’s tooth' applied to valets. Against all good sense, he wished for Jeeves.

*****

When the news broke, Bertie’s aunt, Agatha Gregson, wasted no time in summoning the family and outlining her battle plan.

'It is imperative that we convince them that the young imbecile is mad, and that this perversion is just a manifestation of that. Better to have a lunatic in the family than a common criminal. He got it from his mother, of course.'

Dahlia snorted. 'Are you forgetting about Henry? Or wasn’t it our brother who kept rabbits in the bedroom? I always forget.' Henry’s widow, Emily, gave a stifled wail into her handkerchief.

'From his mother!' Agatha snapped, 'Kindly do not interrupt me, Dahlia. He will have to be put in confinement, of course. I’m only sorry we didn’t do it years ago. It would have spared us all this scandal.'

'What we want,' Dahlia cut in, 'is to get Roderick Glossop in on the thing. Old Roddy’s got a new hospital out in Chuffnell Regis, and I hear he’s quite changed his tune on the young blot. If we could have him sent there, at least the silly chump would be treated well -'

'Treated well? After bringing this disgrace on the family, I hardly care if they treat him like a dog. Even if Sir Roderick’s facility were ready for patients, which it is not, it would be most unsuitable. His methods, I have discovered, are far too lenient.'

'Pansy or not, I’d expect you’d still have some family feeling for him –'

Agatha sniffed dismissively. 'Would you prefer to see him in prison?'

George, Lord Yaxley, who had been watching from the sidelines coughed. 'A lad like Bertie in prison? With this hanging over his head? Oh no, no, no. It won’t do at all. He wouldn’t last a week. No, no, a good doctor, some of these new therapies, and the boy will be right as rain.'

*****

'Would you say, Mrs. Travers,' the judge asked, peering down at her through his pince-nez, 'That your nephew is of unsound mind?'

'Quite,' Aunt Dahlia answered, her customary bellow, so useful for summoning hounds, only adding to the conviction of her words. 'He’s never been quite right in the head, you know. Goes around with twenty-three cats in his bedroom, and impersonates romance novelists. He’s a strange lad.'

From his position in the dock, Bertie listened with growing despondency. First Aunt Agatha, and now Aunt Dahlia had testified to his loopiness, and the only end he could see in that was to have him committed to some loony bin, rather than two years hard l., a prospect h didn’t like one bit. He’d read a mystery once that was set in an asylum, and the vivid descriptions of the treatments and the sinister doctors still gave him the shivers. At least in prison, there wouldn’t be sinister doctors to experiment on his brain. He tried to telegraph this to Aunt Dahlia with his eyes, but only succeeded in looking as mad as she’d painted him, he suspected.

The aged relation continued blithely on. 'He was an odd child too, even before he lost his parents.' She dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, an act so out of character, Bertie could only surmise she was going for sympathy. She was rather overplaying her hand, he thought, but the judge was nodding along. 'I’m sure the poor lad didn’t understand what he was doing. But he’s quite harmless. He just needs someone to take him in hand. A good doctor, perhaps.'

'And what of his criminal tendencies, ma’am?' The prosecutor cut in. 'He was arrested two years ago for attempting to steal a policeman’s helmet. The act of a common criminal, not a harmless simpleton.'

Dahlia snorted. 'A common criminal? No criminal worth his salt would steal a policeman’s helmet. What on earth would he want with one? Only a silly loon would do such a thing.'

The proceedings dragged on. Bertie concentrated on maintaining the stiff upper lip, playing his favourite songs in his head to distract himself, and fighting the urge to fidget. He might be facing doom and despair, but the last of the Woosters would at least meet his fate with his head high. At length, the sentence was passed down, and it was with no surprise that he heard the word 'Guilty.'

'However,' said the judge, 'In light of the unfortunate infirmity of his mind, I am inclined to believe that the prisoner would derive greater benefit from the care of medical men than from prison, which is the usual sentence in such cases. I will waive the prison sentence, and the prisoner will be placed into the care of Colney Hatch, until such time as the doctors see fit to release him as a productive member of society. Dismissed.'

*****

Jeeves had watched the entire painful scene. Disguised, and hidden at the back of the court room, he had been unable to look away from his erstwhile master’s sagging form. To see Bertie like that, his characteristic joie de vivre stripped from his face and replaced by a frightened strain, was unsettling. He listened stonily to Mrs Gregson and Mrs Travers denouncing their nephew as mad, knowing they thought they were doing their best by him, all too aware of what the real consequences could be.

When the sentence was passed down, he didn’t linger. Instead, he sought out the office where a court official was already making the arrangements to have Bertram conveyed to the asylum. What his lifetime in service hadn’t taught him about being unobtrusive, his time in the war had, and it wasn’t difficult to gather the relevant details. He ran through them in his mind, adapting the plan he and Mary had put together. As it was already evening, Bertram would be held overnight, allowing Jeeves the time to make some final arrangements.

The next morning saw him heading to the town of Colney Hatch on the milk train, a valise by his side, and a small bottle tucked into his inner pocket. Entering the grounds of the asylum was easier than it should have been, and he stationed himself near the garage to wait. Shortly, a pair of orderlies emerged, rough looking men who were snickering at some private joke as they approached his hiding spot. It was the work of a moment to take a heavy cosh that had been secreted in his valise and bring it down hard on the back of the shorter man’s head, knocking him to the ground. When the man’s companion whirled to face their attacker, Jeeves calmly clouted him in the jaw, leaving him out cold.

Unwilling to risk their waking until his plan was well in train, he withdrew the small bottle from his jacket, administering the sleeping drops to the unconscious men and massaging their throats until they swallowed. He relieved the taller of the orderlies of his uniform, and dragged the two limp forms into the garage, stowing them in the shadows, where they would hopefully not be discovered. He changed into the stolen uniform, packing his own clothes in his valise, before examining the vehicle now at his disposal. It was a battered-looking car, but thankfully a self-starter. It might eventually be found at King’s Cross Station, after it had served his purpose.

He used the mirror to affix a false mustache. The thing was revolting, and he resisted the urge to curl his lip. Sacrifices must be made, he reminded himself, for Bertie.

*****

At least he’d been given one of his own suits for the journey to Colney Hatch, Bertie thought, slumping dispiritedly in a hard chair in the little room where he’d been brought that morning and told to wait. He’d no doubt be forced to change into some dashed unfashionable pyjamas at the hospital, but one must take comfort where one can. He wished he could remember any of Jeeves’s Marcus Aurellius gags – they usually had something about facing adversity – but perversely, the only one he could think of was some bally depressing wheeze about things being empty, stale and trivial.

There were voices on the other side of the door – the two police officers who had put him in here and a deeper voice that seemed to belong to the orderly sent by the hospital. There was a note of something almost familiar in that voice, which shot a wistful pang through him. It was a foolish notion, of course; Bertie didn’t know anyone who spoke with that rough accent.

'They only sent one of you?' One of the policemen was asking, sounding surprised.

'You think I can’t handle him?' Bertie wouldn’t have wanted to face the challenge in that voice, if a voice could be faced, that was. He imagined the constable cringing. 'I wrestle dangerous nutters for a living. You think I can’t handle one skinny nancy-boy?'

There was a cough and a shuffling of feet. 'Well, when you put it that way.'

'Just show me the patient.'

Bertie kept his head ducked as he was led out of the small room, hands still cuffed behind his back.

'Good,' stated the orderly. 'Keep your head down, and don’t look at me, do you understand?'

Bertie nodded, without lifting his eyes, 'Oh yes, yes. Right-ho. I can do that.'

'Good,' the man repeated. 'If I have the constable remove the cuffs, will you come quietly?'

'Anything you say, old bean.' Bertie sighed in relief as the cold metal fell away from his skin. After a few more words between the orderly and the policemen, he was led outside to a battered looking car and gruffly ordered to get in.

They drove in silence, Bertie obediently keeping his eyes averted. Finally the car stopped.

'Time to get out.' The man’s voice was less rough now, kinder almost. 'We’re taking the train from here.' Well, that seemed dashed odd – he was fuzzy on the details, but he hadn’t thought Colney Hatch was far from London - but then, who knew how these loony hospitals did things. He’d find out soon enough. He trotted along at the man’s heels, waited while he bought tickets, and then scrambled after him again, climbing aboard the train, and nearly running into the broad back, when the orderly stopped suddenly.

'This is our compartment.' The man held the sliding door open, clearly intending Bertie to go through.

'I say. Awfully nice to spring for a private compartment. If it’s like this, maybe being a loony won’t be so bad, what?' he was saying as the door slid shut. Might as well try to endear himself to this orderly chappie – he had the feeling he’d need as many friends as he could get once he got to Colney Hatch. Besides, being an orderly couldn’t be much of a life. Some light chatter might do the fellow good. He’d only been ordered not to look at him, not to keep quiet. 'I mean to say, I don’t know if you’ve read Murder in Bedlam, but maybe this Colney Whatsit is nicer than that?' His nervous chatter was interrupted by a quiet sigh, and an even quieter whisper.

'Oh sir,' murmured the orderly chappie, sounding nothing like an orderly and everything like Jeeves. Bertie’s gaze flew up to his face.

'Jeeves!' he gasped.

'You must be quiet, sir, please,' said the orderly who was apparently Jeeves, sotto voce, as he peeled off a false mustache that must have been giving him fits. 'These compartments are not completely soundproof.'

'But Jeeves,' Bertie whispered. 'What are you doing working as an orderly in a loony bin?'

Jeeves gave a quiet cough, like a sheep on a distant hillside, and Bertie could have melted with the familiarity of it. 'I am afraid, sir, that I have been guilty of a deception. I am not, in fact employed at Colney Hatch.'

'Well, then what are you doing pretending it? Dashed odd of you.'

Another cough. 'In essence, I am kidnapping you, sir.'

'Kidnapping? Do you need the cash then? I hate to say this, Jeeves, but that massive brain of yours seems to have shot a fuse. I mean to say, I’m a sodomite and a loony and a disgrace to the Wooster name. No one is going to pay my ransom. I expect they’re glad to be rid of me.'

'Then they are fools,' Jeeves said, with more bite than an Aberdeen terrier. Bertie’s eyebrows leapt.

'Jeeves?'

A sigh. 'I am sorry, sir. I have no intention of holding you for ransom. This train is headed to Dover, where we will catch the ferry to France.'

'What is this talk of France, Jeeves? This is no time for a vacation.'

'No, sir. However, in France, sodomy is not illegal, and you are unlikely to be placed in a mental institution against your will.'

'You’re rescuing me?' His voice leapt an octave. 'But Jeeves, I don’t understand.'

'I fear I made a grievous mistake in leaving your service, sir.'

'What, and you still thought that, even after seeing me locked up for my unnatural perversions?'

'I do not consider them to be either unnatural or perversions, sir.'

Bertie’s eyes felt hot and itchy, his palms clammy. His throat felt as if it were closing up. 'Jeeves –' he choked and stopped. 'Oh dear,' he said. 'I think I’m going to cry.' He sniffed, and a hot tear spilled over. He dashed an arm across his wet cheek. 'How bally embarrassing.' His shoulders shook.

'It is perfectly natural, sir.' Jeeves’s voice was low and sympathetic, and he even went so far as to lay a warm hand tentatively on Bertie’s shoulder. 'You have had a very trying few weeks, sir, and a great shock. It is simply catching up with you.'

With a strangled sound, Bertie lunged and buried his head against Jeeves’s shoulder, completely incapable now of ceasing his shaking or stoppering the tears, though thankfully able to hold back the noises that wanted to escape. He stayed like that for long minutes, with Jeeves, miracle of miracles, stroking his back as if the young master cried on his shoulder every day of the week. Finally, feeling like a wrung out dish towel, Bertie stepped back and offered Jeeves a watery smile.

'Thank you, Jeeves. I needed that.'

'Not at all, sir. If I may, sir, your suit has become rumpled during your upset. I should like to set it to rights, if it pleases you.'

That wrung a weak chuckle from Bertie, 'Have at it, old fruit. Dash it, I’ve bally well missed you, Jeeves.'

Jeeves’s mouth quirked gently at the corner. 'I have missed you too, sir.' His capable fingers were straightening Bertie’s tie, and Bertie glanced down at himself to find that he was already miraculously wrinkle-free.

'Jeeves, you are a marvel,' he praised, but Jeeves didn’t appear to hear, instead frowning at the way Bertie’s suit hung slightly on his form.

'The suit no longer fits you, sir. You have lost weight.' His tone was soupy, though not in a way that seemed aimed at Bertram.

Bertie shrugged, aiming for nonchalant, but falling a few degrees short. 'Yes, well, that’s what happens when a fellow’s in chokey, I suppose.'

'That will have to be remedied, of course, sir, and our wardrobe replenished - unfortunately, I was unable to retrieve any of your suits.' He seemed to be doing calculations in his head. 'I am afraid we may have to settle for something less than bespoke, alas. We will have to be careful with the expenses. While my savings are considerable for a man in my position, they will not stretch to the lifestyle you once enjoyed, I am sorry to say. I may be forced to find a position to supplement our income, sir, but rest assured that I will not take something that requires me to leave you again.'

'We, Jeeves? Our income? You’re staying with me? You would go into exile with me?'

'Sir, I am either a kidnapper or the accomplice to a fugitive madman. Did you imagine that I could return to England, under the circumstances?'

Bertie flushed, though Jeeves wore a gentle smile. 'Well, no. I just didn’t think of it, I guess. That’s dashed feudal of you, though I can’t imagine why you would do such a thing for a silly blighter like me. I do have some money stashed in a Swiss bank, though, Jeeves, if that will help out. I put it there for emergencies a few years ago.' He shrugged again. 'It looks like it will come in handy after all, what?'

'Sir, that shows remarkable forethought. Thank you. Do you think you could rest, sir? If you will forgive me for saying so, you appear worn out.'

'Quite. You won’t mind, Jeeves?'

'Not at all, sir.'

*****

Once they had landed in Calais, Jeeves settled Bertie into a small hotel, where he arranged to have supper sent up. Though the hotel was clean and comfortable, the sort of place Jeeves himself might have stayed while on holiday, it distressed him to have to bring Bertie to a place that was far beneath the luxury in which he usually travelled. It was a necessary evil, however. Even with the unexpected addition of the emergency funds, they would still have to practice economy.

'I am sorry the hotel is not up to your regular standard, sir.'

'Pish-tosh, Jeeves. It is neither prison cell nor loony bin, and it contains the paragon to top all paragons – by which I mean you. It is the very definition of heaven in this Wooster’s books.'

When the meal came, it was all good, hot, filling food, and Jeeves watched Bertie with a chary eye, to be sure he ate it all. He was not at all sanguine in his mind about the weight the other had lost, nor the tiredness that still lurked around his eyes even after dozing on the train and then the ferry. Bertie’s spirits at least, had risen considerably, as the reality of his escape set in. He kept glancing up from his food to smile brightly at Jeeves, who, though unable to resist returning the smile, was eventually compelled to urge him, 'Eat, sir.'

At Jeeves’s request, a bottle of brandy and some soda water had been brought up along with dinner. Bertie, propped against the headboard of one of the room’s beds gazed fondly up at him as Jeeves passed him an after-dinner snifter. The fond gaze lasted so long, that Jeeves almost had to fight the urge to shuffle his feet, something he was sure he hadn’t done since he was fourteen.

'Yes, sir?' he inquired finally, unable to continue in silence under that gaze.

'I was just thinking, Jeeves, that no one has ever taken care of me as well as you have.'

'I am your valet, sir. It is my job to do so.'

'Nonsense. I’m hardly paying you a wage at the mo. And even if I were, that’s no guarantee of anything. Look at that Brinkley chap with his knife, or Meadowes who stole my socks. And Hoskins was the one who turned me in – let me believe everything was boomps-a-daisy, then called the rozzers the second I’d knocked off to dreamland.' He blinked. 'Jeeves? Are you quite alright?'

'I am sorry, sir, I will be better directly. I only regret that I did not know of this before; I would have endeavoured to have words with the fellow.'

'My word, Jeeves.' Bertie breathed, looking slightly awestruck. 'I’m not entirely convinced that by words, you don’t mean fisticuffs.'

'I am not convinced myself, sir.' His hands were still clenched in fists, he noticed. He released them slowly, and let out a calming breath. Bertie was still watching him wide-eyed, a look of dawning understanding on his face.

'Jeeves?' Bertie scrambled up onto his knees on the bedclothes, an odd light in his eyes. 'Jeeves. Is this - ?' Jeeves’s heart sped as Bertie, eyes intent and lips parted, grasped his lapels. 'Jeeves, did you do this for me because -?' He must have read the answer to his unspoken question in Jeeves’s face, because he surged forward, pressing his mouth to his over and over, opening his lips on a sigh as Jeeves returned the kiss. His mouth was sweet and heady, and Jeeves couldn’t resist drawing the kiss out for several long moments, before he finally, reluctantly pushed Bertie away from him.

'Stop, sir. Please.' His voice was ragged to his own ears.

He was met with a pout. 'But why? It’s France, we’re safe, you said so yourself. You rescued me. You’re in love with me.' His voice cracked on those last words.

He tried to turn away, but Bertie’s grip on his lapels stopped him. 'I did not rescue you with any expectation of being repaid this way. Your gratitude warms me, sir, but your safety is reward enough. I would not ask this of you.'

'But dash it, man, what if I want to reward you?'

'Sir –' The warning tone he had intended seemed to have been lost somewhere along the way.

'Shall I tell you a secret, Jeeves?' Bertie drew Jeeves back to him, wrapping his arms around his waist, and laying his head on his shoulder. 'I think I’ve been in love with you from the get-go,' he whispered, his lips brushing the skin of Jeeves’s neck, making him shiver. 'So when I say I want to reward you,' he paused to press an open-mouthed kiss against his throat, 'you must know how very, very much I want it.' He whispered this last bit directly into Jeeves’s ear, following it with a nip to the lobe.

'Sir,' he breathed, 'Bertie.' He guided Bertie’s mouth back to his, kissing him gently, languidly. He trailed kisses down the elegant line of his throat as Bertie clung to him and then dragged him back into a deeper kiss, as if desperate to taste him. When they pulled back this time, they were both panting heavily and Bertie’s eyes were heavy-lidded.

'Jeeves.' He wet his lips with his tongue. 'Jeeves, make love to me, please.'

Jeeves groaned. 'Always.'

*****

It was springtime in Calais. The windows in the small flat were open, letting in a warm breeze and bright sunshine, and Bertie was clacking away on the old typewriter, when the door to the flat opened.

'Jeeves!' he cried, craning his neck to grin at his man over his shoulder. 'Have a nice afternoon, mon amour?' He liked to throw in these little French phrases where he could – when in Rome, and all that, only Calais wasn’t in Italy, of course.

'Yes, sir.' Jeeves floated over to plant a kiss on Bertie’s cheek. 'How is your manuscript coming along, my dear?' He ran his fingers through Bertie’s hair, an action that always made Bertie feel like purring.

'Just spiffing, old thing. Although, I think I’ll fudge the ending on this one a bit, have you come back with me after that mess with Chuffy and the Stokers. What do you think?'

'Just as it should have been,' Jeeves answered, dropping a kiss on Bertie’s hair. Bertie grinned. When not staging rescue missions, his man could really be most endearingly soppy.

'I say,' he said, pulling himself out of his chair to tug Jeeves over to the sofa with him. 'Who would have thought it would be me earning our daily bread?' Meeting J. Morningside, the publisher had been a stroke of luck, and as long as Bertie wrote under a pseudonym, his own name being rather tarnished in England, the man seemed happy enough to keep the money rolling in for whatever words Bertie bashed out.

'I had no doubt in your abilities.' Jeeves replied, virtuously ignoring the look Bertie gave him at that, amused and reproving.

'We both know that’s a lie. But it doesn’t matter, my dear, because you don’t doubt me now. I am running out of adventures, though. I may have to begin making things up out of the old onion. Did I ever tell you about the white mess jacket with the brass buttons I bought in Cannes? I’d like to write about your reaction to that.'

Jeeves shuddered in an exaggerated manner. 'Please, sir, my nerves.'

Bertie laughed. 'Alright, I’ll spare you the details. Was that the post you brought in with you?'

'Yes, sir. A letter from my sister Mary, and one for you from Miss Angela.'

'Angela!' Bertie yelped, grabbing the envelope. 'How did she know where to find me?'

'I could not say, sir.' Bertie skimmed the page eagerly. 'Is the letter to your satisfaction?'

'Well, she calls me her “little darling”, then tells me Tuppy Glossop is a fathead and they will be married next month. And then she says I should have told her where I was before, because she already knew I was safe in cabs, and didn’t care. A corking girl, Jeeves. One couldn’t ask for a better cousin.'

'Indeed, sir.' He opened his own letter and read it, with his free arm wrapped around Bertie’s shoulders, a faint smile on his face. 'Mary sends you her greetings.'

'Awfully decent of her.'

'She tells me to take care of you.'

'You always do. It’s all I could ever want.' He could be awfully soppy himself, when the occasion called for it. Jeeves seemed to approve, because he set the letter aside to gather Bertie into his arms and kiss him thoroughly.

They drew back slowly, and Bertie smiled against his man’s mouth. 'Jeeves, darling, how would you feel about taking care of me in the bedroom, right now?'

**Author's Note:**

> I make no claims as to historical accuracy in this.


End file.
